Lay Me To Sleep
by ReesePants
Summary: How do you break someone? Easily. You find their weakness and destroy it. And Moriarty has found Sherlock's weakness and he'll use it against him until John Watson is no more.   Pairing s : John/Sherlock  Rating: M for violence and adult subjects.
1. Cold

**So I'm a BIG fan of the show and of the couple. The idea for this is based lightly on an idea I had had in my head for a while now that only blew up when my friend seemed to get the same one in some ways for our role play. So this is lightly based on that role play (though, it hasn't gotten this far yet) and even more so off that idea. This is during the relationship of Sherlock and John. And yes. They have Gladstone. Gotta love a bulldog pup. **

**I OWN NOTHING.  
Sherlock, John, and Moriarty belong to BBC and Gladstone belongs to Doyle. **

So cold.

There were no other words to put it. It was a winter night (or was it morning?) in London. It was expected. Even as he breathed, he could see his own breath becoming a cloud and bouncing against the floor that his face was pressed against.

He should be moving, trying to get at least a little heat in him. No. What he should be doing was getting out of this place. But he knew he couldn't do that, knew that it was impossible. His legs were useless and laid in odd angles. He could still hear the horrible cracking sounds that had crippled him in pain which had happened in what felt like life times before. It must have only been hours, though. Maybe even a day or two. Time seemed to mean nothing here for him. He couldn't keep track of it even if he wanted to. There was no light, no signs of sun to tell him what time of day it was. He must be underground.

No, it was better that he didn't know how much time had passed. It would only prove what had been told to him over and over again. No one was coming to find him. And if they did, they wouldn't be in time. Even he was starting to think there was no way he could last much longer. His throat screamed painfully for water, even the smallest amount while the rest of his body was screaming in its own pain. And the cold. It didn't help the matter that he was drenched and so was the floor under him. Red blotches all around him, looking of paint if he hadn't known better.

His eyes were burning again, begging for sleep. It left his body wanting the same, begging to drift into the blackness of rest and to leave the pain behind until it woke him later. It seemed like a gift from god, if there was such a thing. But he knew he wouldn't get lucky. It would only be a matter of time when he got another visit. He had learned his mistake of being asleep when it happened last time. He wasn't going to make it again if he had the choice.

So time passed and sleep was fought off the best he possibly could. But in the end he couldn't keep doing it. His body needed sleep. And part of him almost hoped that when he did fall asleep, maybe he wouldn't wake up. The soldier in him had fully given up by now. Part of him was already dead.

Things around him were going dark as his heavy eyelids won the struggling battle for sleep when the sound of heavy feet could distantly be heard. Let him do what he wanted to him. He didn't care anymore. He was going to sleep, to escape from the pain that was plaguing him. The fact he was soon able to make out the steady beat of more then one set of footsteps above him on the floor above didn't come much of a surprise to him. Moriarty didn't like doing all the dirt work himself, hated to have blood on his own hands. But he was the one that broke the ex-soldier in the end. For John Watson was nothing more then a play toy to him. He was something that could be thrown away, though would break apart Sherlock Holmes at the same time.

For that was all this was. Jim Moriarty wanted to break apart Sherlock in every way possible, to teach the consulting detective a lesson now that he had a weakness. John wasn't sure when all of this had started. They hadn't been working on case, not that he had known of anyways. And yet they were both sucked into this that god damn night.

_"John! This is important! There's something in there that might end up helping us find a new case!" Spoken like a true spoiled child as Sherlock turned his head and gray-blue eyes to John, a plea on his face. Really, the detective hadn't seen the problem in this favor. Far from understanding why John was being stubborn on the matter. But John had good reason for it. It was technically the next day by now. And the chances of John actually finding yesterdays paper was little to none at this point. None close by anyways._

_"What happened to the one I got you earlier today!" It wasn't a question, it was a statement. A very annoyed statement. He had been planning to go to sleep after he had finished the tea he was currently sipping on. Even Gladstone was looking back at Sherlock with annoyance at the idea of the source of his warmth leaving him. Though, the idea of being left alone with a bored Sherlock wasn't on the top of the dog's list of things to do either._

_"Stop giving me that disapproving wife look! And same goes for your dog-" "Our-" "Yes, fine. Just tell him to stop giving me that look! He's judging me!" Why Sherlock was thinking that Gladstone was judging him wasn't even clear in John's head. Though, the dog most likely knew what happened to the paper, which John was still waiting to hear about. He rolled his eyes at the look on Sherlock's face and how the other's milky white features burned from the excited tone in his voice and glare he was sending the dog that was laying on John's lap. Though. The glare wasn't new. He had been giving it to Gladstone all night. Most likely for the fact John decided to sit in his chair rather then somehow finding a place on the couch that the detective was sprawled out on and that Gladstone jumped up right as Sherlock was about to start complaining on the matter, just to 'spite him', as the other had put it._

_"The paper, Sherlock?" The detective looked back at John for a moment, an eyebrow raised as if he was trying to remember what exactly they had been talking about as his eyes flashed and met John's dark orbs. "Right. Well, I was trying to cook breakfast-" "Dear lord, _that_ was that burnt smell? Sherlock, how many times-" "You weren't around! You were out walking that beast and I was hungry! I simply got distracted by reading the paper and it just happened to be a bit too close to the flame that had formed. Lestrade is in a mood and told me to read the paper if I wanted information. Which is stupid because the paper will be a horrible lie on the matter." Through the whole story, it was this part that made Sherlock's face scrunch up with disgust. To John, however, everything suddenly made sense of why the kitchen was in such a state when he had gotten back. Everything had been soaked yet and there had been black ashes laying in disarray in the kitchen. And of course Sherlock had been in the sitting room watching the news with a bored look on his face. John had simply learned not to ask questions so early in the morning._

_John let his head rest in his hands, plenty of words in mind in which he would love to spat out at Sherlock, but instead he just let out a tired sigh. "Fine. Just don't burn the place down while I'm gone this time," he grumbled, of course adding the sarcasm in to it all the same. He moved and placed Gladstone onto the chair while he stood, which only left the dog giving him an upset look and a small whimper. John simply gave him a small pat before crossing the room and grabbing his coat. Maybe it was the fact that John had agreed, but Sherlock had sat up in shock, an eyebrow raised at the matter before he pushed himself to his feet and walked over to John._

_"We'll go to bed after." John didn't have a chance to really give another snappy remark before Sherlock's lips had captured his own. As soon as he felt them against his own and the shock of the matter had dripped away, John's anger simply melted away. Damn Sherlock. He should never have told the other the power he had over him with such kisses. And of course, it was the one thing that Sherlock had decided to listen to him about too. When he had been freed from the kiss (though, he had been quite enjoying it in all truth), there was no heated anger left within him. He simply let out a small sigh and nodded. "Fine. But your sleeping on the side that's by the edge tonight. I don't want to wake up on the floor again." Even if John completely meant it, there was a smile on his face that was reflected lightly on Sherlock's face slightly awkwardly. But it was still beautiful all the same._

_And John left it at that, a smile on his face as he made his way down the stairs. The sounds of the wood under his footsteps creaking in the late hour had some how left their impression on him as he pulled his jacket close to him against the cold he knew he'd soon be feeling outside compared the warmth he had been sharing with Gladstone only moments before. It seemed to echo in the darkness and seemed far louder then it should be._

Why hadn't he noticed this before? Something was different with the footsteps that seemed to echoed all around John and yet missed him altogether. They were more frantic then they should be. Looking for something or someone. Not only that, but he was sure, even if it was only whispers to him, that he was hearing voices with them. They were calling out. But they were far too quiet for him to really hear of what. Even if he knew, why should he care? And yet he did. Though the chances that they were looking for him were small, he hoped whatever they were looking for was found all the same.

_Well, he had some how done it. John found a bloody paper. Right before the paper boy replaced the old ones with that days paper, John had rushed in and grabbed one. He just hoped Sherlock still needed it, not having had him run about town in this cold to find it for nothing. But he couldn't keep mad. He wanted nothing more then to get back to the flat and to crawl into bed and to be close to Sherlock again. That and he was exhausted._

_It could have been that fact that he didn't notice it, didn't notice black car slow behind him and stop. John hadn't even heard it. His mind was in a haze of what he wanted more then anything at that moment. He didn't hear the door open, didn't hear the footsteps behind him. He hugged his coat to him once more, the paper tucked under his arm messily._

_It was the clicking sound and the sharp pain behind his head that finally made John take notice of what was actually happening. His heart froze roughly and so did his feet. He didn't move, didn't even breath. "Look, I don't have any money. I'm piss broke." Of course being mugged was the first thing that came to his mind. What else would be happening on the streets of London. Even more so at this time at night. But the person behind him just gave a snorting laugh._

_"Oh please. I know you don't have a cent to your name Johnny. No, no. I'm not mugging you. Like_ I _would need the money. No. What I need is you Doctor John Watson."_

"John! JOHN! Answer me John!"

_The voice was so sarcastic and bored sounding. A younger male. Maybe John would have a chance against him if he didn't have a gun to his head. But the voice itself, it was like nothing he had ever heard. It was so cold, colder then the night around him. It sounded like he would kill John right then and there if he could. It was defiantly not one John knew. He had never heard it before in his life. And yet it seemed the other knew him, almost like he was someone John had known his whole life._

He knew that voice. Sherlock? No, there was no way it real. It had to be his mind playing tricks on him, his mind finally caving after no sleep or water for so long. It was just something his mind had created to comfort him. It wasn't like John minded. It was nice to hear it again, to hold onto it while he wasted away to nothing.

But were the footsteps in his head as well? They were still scattered, moving this way and that, but there was one set close to him at last. Slowly his eyes opened a crack, unable to open them anymore then that. Even in the dark he was able to see foot as they came into the room. No this really couldn't just be in his head. The feet had stopped, frozen before he watched them move toward him in a rush. Who was it? His heart raced, expecting to feel a kick to his chest or head, his eyes even closing almost as if he could feel the pain already. But there was a small bit of heat that slowly drifted toward him. A shaking hand touched his face lightly, drawing his eyes open once more.

Sherlock? He found him. He actually found him. His eyes and face stung horribly. It was only as he tasted the salty liquid on his lips that he knew he was crying, taking away the little water that was still in his body. Sherlock found him. And he was swallowed up by darkness, passing out as he felt water dripping from above him, falling like rain but tasting like salt.


	2. Hollow

**It's finally up! I've been working on this for a while now and almost gave up. I've also wrote it out about a million different ways and I finally came up with this. Because of my new meds for the illness I have makes me out of it I'm normally pretty blah during the day and have to write at night. You'll notice when I am I think in the middle when I decided I'd treck through it all the same. But I wanted to thank everyone for the support so far.  
And here it is! Sherlock's POV. Just a warning, I'm not very good at writing as him, but I gave it a shot because a lot of you wanted to see it. **

**I still own nothing. Sherlock and John belong to BBC. Well, more Moffy and Gaty. **

...

That wasn't John.

No. Correction. It wasn't his John. His John had never looked so small, never looked so scared of the world around him. Never since Sherlock had met him anyways.

As his fast moving feet went over the cold cement floor, the torch light in his hand shinning in a far too menacing way for him to stand. With every foot fall images of John's face flashed through his head. A smile, a laugh. Scowling at him when Sherlock almost blew up what was on the stove dinner. The way John's face lit up whenever Sherlock kissed him. The way John had flushed when Sherlock first kissed him. The way John's eyes a lit with such emotion that Sherlock couldn't even put names for whenever John saw him in the crowd. How perfectly his rough fingers from years of holding a gun instead of taking care of this sick fit within his own so well.

And now... now he didn't resemble the other at all. His dirty blond hair was knotted and dark. Why was it so dark? It looked as if someone had dunked it into paint. Every inch of his skin was swollen or black coloured or the dark thick liquid... oh god.

It clicked in his mind. Something that should have clicked long before, but he simply didn't want to believe it as he knelled in the pool of it. Blood. So much blood. With shaking fingers Sherlock reached out and touched the other's cheek. He just simply needed to touch him, to know it was real and not some sick dream. God. He didn't know what would be worse. Dream or reality at this point.

And yet, for that short moment that his eyes held John's before they closed, Sherlock knew the truth. No. It was reality. And that was okay. He found John. He found him and he was still alive.

"Oh dear god..." How long had Lestrade been behind him, Sherlock didn't know. He didn't turn to look at the other, his fingers gently brushing against John's swollen face. He didn't say a word, couldn't. He couldn't even take his eyes off John. If he did, someone could take him away again. And if that happened, Sherlock didn't know if he could handle it. Not again.

Sherlock could hear Lestrade moving away and yelling. There was a rush of footsteps from above and down the flight of stairs. But he didn't care. He was too focused on John, picking up the other's head gently and cradling it in his lap.

Then came arms and hands, reaching and trying to take John away from him. There was yells and desperate pleas and Lestrade grabbing hold of him, telling him everything was okay. It was only as they took John up the stairs that Sherlock realized the yells had been coming from him.

"Sherlock, it's okay. Everything is okay. We need to get him to the hospital now. Come on. We'll follow the ambulance. They're going to need all the room in there that they can get to help John." Why was Lestrade talking to him like that? In that god damn voice he used on victims families? And yet he knew the other man was just trying to help. Slowly Sherlock stopped fighting against Lestrade's grip and slowly gave a nod before letting himself be led up the stairs and through the deserted house once more.

...

The simple fact Sherlock had behaved up to this very point was amazing. But how could he be expected to keep sitting there when he had seen them wheel John from surgery and into a room? He had tried to go into the room only to be blocked by a nurse and told only family was allowed at this time. She might as well of spit on him than say it in such a horrid way.

Words had flooded from his lips, curse words along with every horrid statement he could think of about her appearance, her intelligence, and even prying into her private life, saying it all loud enough for everyone in the waiting room to hear.

"Shit! Sherlock, you need to calm down! I can't leave you for two minutes to fill out paper work, can I?" Lestrade's voice was extremely tired as he grabbed hold of Sherlock's shoulders and moving him a bit further away from the nurse who looked like she was either going to burst into tears or start kicking the shit out of the detective.

"It's not my fault that it's all true! She's being unreasonable and wont let me see John!" Sherlock snapped, his voice full of venom and with childish displeasure. But Lestrade knew better, under the heated exchange and cold words he could hear the hint of a desperate tone buried in it all. Sherlock just wanted to be with his boyfriend.

"And as I already told him, at this time only family can be allowed in. The patient -"

"The patient is only a live right now because his boyfriend found him in time. Trust me, when John Watson wakes up he wont want to see his 'family'. He'll want to see his boyfriend that has been searching for a week for him and then you'll have his anger on top of this ones. And if that isn't enough to convince you, I'll leave this one to shout out every little detail about your love life to the rest of the hospital just by what he can see with what shoes you have on or whatever nonsense while I stand here and make sure that no security interferes. So it's up to you." In any other case Lestrade wouldn't act in such a way. But the past few days had shown him a side of Sherlock that he was sure didn't exist. Him and the rest of Scotland Yard. And he wasn't going to let some uppity nurse try and keep the younger man from seeing John if he had any say. Because even Sherlock needed help every now and again.

The nurse at this point only had to look Lestrade in the eye to tell he was dead serious with the matter. She gritted her teeth and moved out from the doorway. "I swear, I don't get paid enough for this..." She hissed and made her way down the hall and her hands up in the air as a sign of simply giving up.

As soon as the doorway was clear for him to get through, Sherlock moved for it. He just had to see John, to make sure the other man was actually still there. Because Sherlock was still waiting to wake up in a cold sweat to find himself back at 221B Baker Street alone. John would still be gone with only the the distant taste of what had been and what could have been thanks to the so called dream.

But it wasn't a dream. He walked into the room and froze at the sight before him. Somehow it was worse then sight he had found only hours before. Sherlock hardly dared to breath as looked at the other. Gone away was the floppy sand coloured locks that John had been growing out. Instead was a hack job where they couldn't get the blood out and instead they had cut. It was shaved close in some areas here was uplifted spots of bruised skin and bandages covering stitches. Gone away was the blood soaked clothes, instead replaced of the red collared shirt there was a hospital gown lightly hanging over his swelled skin. That was if, if the area hadn't been bandaged up or bruised something horrible. And then there were all the wires and tubes and machines surrounding and hooked up to John. It was just too much. Stinging eyes closed as Sherlock's breath came in sharp and pained at the sight before him, of his John. But he was able to compose himself quickly as his eyes flashed open again, though focused on the floor.

Instead as he made his way over to the only chair that had somehow been squeezed into the small area that was made up of machines and IV stand. As he came around the bed, his fingers grabbed the patient file before falling into the chair, curling his legs to him. He didn't open it. Not yet. As much as his mind craved the information of just what injuries John had and what had been done to him while he had been behind those closed double doors, he simply listened to the beeping of the heart monitor and the moving air with the machine that was hooked to the tube that was in John's mouth. It left Sherlock shivering, but at least it was breathing. Even if it seemed too slow, it was still breathing and induction of John still being with him, even if his eyes were still closed and he still out of it.

But this was Sherlock after all and his lack of rush to find out answers didn't last long. His long fingers quickly opened the cart while his eyes skimmed over more of the basic things within the file until he found just what he was looking for. Why wait for a doctor? They'd surely forget something. The only doctor he trusted was John, and even he was human and apt to forget something. No, it was better he just did it himself.

But what his blue eyes fell on made him want nothing more than wish he hadn't looked, hadn't been so nosily. It was times like this maybe it was better to hear it spoken aloud and then in fine print that seemed to mock him. Dear god. His John. He felt the file slip from his hands as his eyes focus on the other's almost completely still form. Why hadn't he been there to protect him? "I'm sorry John. I'm so sorry," he rasped with the makings of a truly horrified and broken voice as he reached out and grabbed hold of John's hand gently.

Still those words whispered through Sherlock and left him shaking. _'Taring consistent with rape.'_


	3. Trapped

**So it took a while, but chapter number three is here! Its a bit disorganized, but I tried to pack in some information that was missing to try to tie up some loose ends that you might be wondering. Another chapter from Sherlock's view, so again, I apologize if its not the greatest. I still can't seem to get into him as easily as I can John. **

**I want to thank a friend of mine who's been there a lot for me as of late and helped me get through this time for me and helped me from going insane. The character by the name of David in here is hers, and I'm extremely happy she let me use him.**

**Also, thank you to everyone that has reviewed and everything else. I hope that this chapter is as good as you hoped it would be!**

**...**

Time passed at too slow of a pace when there was nothing to keep his mind busy from the boredom he felt. And despite it, Sherlock hadn't moved for two weeks other then for the times he was forced to because his body needed to. Instead he watched a slowly raising and falling of John's chest, listened to the beeping of machines and the sounds of shuffling feet and voices outside of the room. He had done this all for two weeks. Two weeks of John laying there with very few changes.

Sherlock had been told not to get his hopes up that John would wake up anytime soon, if at all. There had been so much trauma to the body that it wasn't something that a body could just recover from over night. And despite it all, John seemed to almost know what was being said about him and kept leaving his doctor shocked.

John no longer needed his breathing tube to help get air through him, though now he instead had tubes going to his nose to give him only a little help. According to the monitor, John's mind wasn't still but instead showing activity, more so when he heard Sherlock's voice, though the other man was sure it was just acquiescence. He was told to talk to the other, maybe it would help, but couldn't get himself to do it. It was like talking to a wall. (Then again, Sherlock was a man who used to carry around a skull to talk to, how could this be any different?) The bruises about the other had for the most part calmed down to a purple, blue, or red colour and the swelling had gone down a bit.

Within the two weeks only a few people had shown up to see John before visiting hours were over. Mrs. Hudson tried to come as often as she could, but every time left in tears, mumbling that it wasn't fair. The poor woman at least brought a change of clothes for Sherlock though whenever she did come so that Sherlock wouldn't have to leave. Not that he would anyways. No matter how bored he got.

Lestrade and his insufferable boyfriend visited as well every other day. In all truth, Sherlock leaned on these visits, even if he had deal with David during them. Lestrade was more then happy to run and get stuff for Sherlock such as food and coffee, anything to not stand in the room for too long, instead leaving his boyfriend to do that. It was the first time that Sherlock had been in a room with David that didn't end with them yelling at each other. Instead there was idle chat that drove Sherlock mad. But at least they were both there because they cared about John. Against Sherlock's will, David and John had become friends over the months. John would often laugh at him for being jealous that he had other friends besides Sherlock, and maybe scared that David would steal him away. He always coupled such teasing remarks with laying kisses on Sherlock's skin until it left the detective dizzy.

And finally, Mycroft had come to hold up his end of it, to say how regretful all of this was. But even though such an encounter where even more stressed then having David there, Mycroft had said something that made Sherlock feel slightly better. His older brother promised to track down Moriarty and get him for what had happened. Of course Sherlock knew it was silly to take relief in it because he knew that even with Mycroft's resources that Moriarty wouldn't get caught. But the idea that since he didn't dare leave with John like this, with him able to wake up at any moment, that someone was trying to track down the man who had hurt John in such a horrible way might get caught... Moriarty would be lucky if Mycroft's men or officers from Scotland Yards got to him first, because Sherlock would kill him for it if he got the chance.

And yet, John's family never made an appearance. Sherlock could still hear John's tight voice when he finally got worn down enough by Sherlock's curiosity to talk about them. They weren't close, him and his parents. Not in connect. While Harry was normally too drunk as of late to even know something was wrong. They all had been contacted and not one showed up.

Sherlock hadn't slept much during these weeks, hadn't moved from the chair he perched on since that first night. It was the longest he had stayed in one spot without going completely insane from boredom or not in deep thought. Though, he was bored out of his mind and most of his time was in thought. He kept trying to think how he could have gotten to John sooner, some how got to him before Moriarty could harm him. But he couldn't and he knew that. Moriarty had seen it as a game, giving him a clue to where John was after solving little riddles, sending him 'presents', if they could be called that. He still remember that dreadful night when he had first gotten a message from Moriarty, saying he knew where Sherlock was and that he would destroy him. Sending John out on a wild goose chase had been hoped to protect him, not for any of this to happen.

Hours later Gladstone had started barking at the door at the point that Sherlock was ready to simply let the horrid animal go. In the end, Sherlock got to his feet and opened the door to find a news paper with blood spatters on it with no trace of where it had come from. Sherlock blinked at it as he picked it up, seeing it was an old paper. And then he remembered his own words to John a little over a hour before.

It had seemed like the moment it had clicked, that his heart raced in fear of what might have happened to the doctor that he got a text from an unknown number. The picture had shown up, though dark on his phone screen. A picture of John, his hands bound and a gun point to his throat. Though it to an untrained eye it might have seemed that John wasn't letting this get to him, Sherlock saw otherwise. For the first time since he met John Watson he had ever seen fear glitter in his blue eyes.

And then it went on from there. The little game with a different number to contact each time when Sherlock figured out a puzzle and a clue and a box would appear at Sherlock's door. John's jacket, his mobile (which had been pretty much destroyed), a picture of John somewhere dark (a basement?), and so many other things over that of a week. The last item he had gotten had been John's wool jumper, soaked almost black and stiff with blood. It had been torn close to ruins. The sigh of it had made Sherlock sick, though little had actually come up for he hadn't ate a bite within those days.

And yet those clues had pointed no where until that final one. Even if he had some how guessed the location, it could have led them wrong. And which would have wasted them time in actually finding John.

Sherlock watched as a nurse came in to check on John, her eyes wary of Sherlock. After all, it was past visiting hours. And yet he hadn't left yet. The nurses soon learned to just leave him be, that he wasn't going anywhere after that first night. Word had spread and in turn when a nurse that hadn't yet met with him knew that it would be far worse and more of a pain for them if they tried to get him to follow the rules.

The nurse for the most part did her job, checking John's pulse and temperature and the readings on the monitors. But when she saw the doctor's temperature, Sherlock knew it was still too high by the look on her face. It had gone for too low that first night and through that next day to too high. John had had hypothermia from being exposed to such cold for too long. That, and pneumonia. All things that had been found that first night, things he had read in the file along with broken bones, torn muscles and tendons and ligaments, fractures (far too many of them to the skull), gaping wounds that were stitched together or stapled, blood transplants for the fact his body had been close to drained. And so many other things.

And of course, the clear signs of rape, signs of torture, signs of attempted escape. The latter was something Sherlock had seen within the wounds, not the doctor's. There had been a build-up of splinters on John's fingers after being dragged back from the wooden stairs that led from his prison, him struggling to keep hold and keep from being brought back. And yet the doctor's weren't giving John pain medication because of his current confinement within himself. They said it would be more likely John wouldn't wake up if they gave it to him. And sometimes, Sherlock wished they'd take that risk. For John's swollen face still conveyed his pain. Tears would drip from closed eyelids, his lips turned down. Somewhere in there, John could feel all of this, was suffering through it.

Once Sherlock was sure the nurse wasn't coming back, he did something hadn't done before. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, his arms gently and carefully wrapping around John and leaning the other's body instead against him. He held John close to him for the first time since he found him those two weeks before. Sherlock did this for his own self reasons, knowing quite well that he could be hurting John by doing this. He simply had to do it, to know he was real. For it had been too long since he held John to him. He never went so long before. Sherlock wasn't one to show his feelings. Yes, he'd kiss John and some times give into the urge (mostly from John's own undoing by being cute) of cuddling with the other. But it was while the ex-solider slept that Sherlock stayed awake and wrapped his arms around John and simply held him to him, so tightly that their heart beats were felt by the other. Because everything in their relationship and that there was one went again the fibers of Sherlock. It went against every rule of the markings of a sociopath.

Under the hospital and chemical smell, Sherlock could faintly smell the musky smell of John. Carefully and softly, he laid a small trail of kisses to John's head, moving around the stapled up areas, which was a good part of him. His broken soldier was far more broken then when he first met him. And it hurt Sherlock, hurt him to know this was his fault.

"John, if you really can hear me, I just want to say I love you." Such words had never been uttered by Sherlock. But he was sure that the feeling that welled up him was love. There was no one else in the world that mattered so much to him then the broken man in his arms. And Sherlock didn't want to know he had never had the nerve to say them to him before John... if he...

As tears stung at Sherlock's eyes, with blurred vision he noticed something. He quickly blinked the tears away, clearing his vision as quickly as he could, even if it meant letting the drip down his face. Even before he could figure out what he saw, a weak hand moved and gripped hold of Sherlock's shirt.

"J-John?" Sherlock croaked in a hoarse voice, a voice he hadn't fully used in far too long. There was no answer, though he could see eyelids moving, blinking. As much as Sherlock didn't want to, he carefully moved out from under John moved to sit on the edge of the bed so he could face John, take even every detail of the other as a smile formed on his own face. John was awake, finally awake. He knew he should have the doctor paged, but he wanted to have his own moment with the other after three weeks now of not truly having the other there.

Sherlock's grays moved and met John's. For a moment, he just looked back into John's eyes, his smile and happiness fading. Something wasn't right. His hand gently pressed against John's cheek softly, which John flinched from. But he didn't care. His gray-blue eyes were glued to John's blues which were hallow and clouded. It was an expression he'd never seen, an expression that would haunt Sherlock. For even though his eyes were open, that he was breathing, they held the expression that Sherlock had only ever seen in a dead man's eyes.

"John...?"


End file.
